Boris grabbed Jostice's shoulder, leaning close enough to whisper. "These me are killers … they abide by no laws or rules."
Jostice leaned back, half-annoyed, and half avoiding the man's hot breath. "You think the Yurks are going to gun by law?" He shook his head, looking upon the deputies. He raised his voice."If you hesitate or question your decision, you'll die, and jeopardize the men around you … I have spoken, and they will come …" He kicked his horse forward. "Sometimes the cursed are a blessing in black cloaks."
Jostice didn't have to look over his shoulder to feel the sharp eyes and crooked smiles of the bounty hunters, nor the furrowed brows and wrinkled noses of the deputies who followed … but he cared none. He heard the talk of the men who surrounded him, even when they were unaware he'd been listening. No man wanted to follow a questionable leader … and he was just that … a man they were uncertain they could trust. And Jostice felt much the same. Having the bounty hunters around might just keep him alive an extra day … and keep a betrayal at bay.
Dusk came quick even in a silent ride. The sky bloodier than a battlefield while the sun pulsed red, fading like a dying heart. There was no stars above. And the moon stayed hidden, afraid of what it might see. A hundred paces away stood the old O'donovan sign and the silhouette of the ranch and farmhouse, loomed like black coffins.
There was nothing stirring beyond the gates. Not a sound in the air. Or a smell in the wind. Not even the Calvary Gods seemed to be watching from above. Like everything in the world had stopped and turned it's back. Death is imminent…
The men found a place to tether down their horses, an old, rooted stump that looked like it had fallen off a wagon that brought the lumbar to build the farm. Once every man had their boots in the grit, they withdrew rifles from their scabbards and revolvers from their holsters, crouching.
"Spread out and watch each others backs," Jostice said, "If we're lucky we'll catch these bastards by surprise."
The men nodded, cocking their rifles, while wearing what could be the last battle face they'd ever wear … for some, it would certainly be their last. Jostice waved a hand and they spread like black ants, using the shadows to hunt. Their steps muffled by the soft sand that sunk beneath their boots, while their guns swung in motion, finger itching to pull the trigger.
At the old, brittle gate the men crouched, extending their necks to get a view while the sun found its mark on the west horizon, blood red light surging across the desert chasing the shadows to the east. The men were left exposed.
"Shit!" Jostice squinted, the sun blazing bright and blinding, now their enemy. He raised a hand, looking beyond the fence where silver stars sparkled from the barn and the farmhouse. He yelled, "Get down—"
From the buildings, redish-black sparks flashed sporadically then faded while the air hissed, and the deputies screamed. Blood rained. Bodies fell. And the guns sang a song that would haunt the ranch for years to come.
"Fucking ambush!" Krix said, pulling Brugar to the ground and using his flabby frame as a blockade.
"You owe me a debt, remember that!"
Brugar swallowed and nodded. Dirt kicking up around his body. "Sure thing, Master…"
Boris and Jostice rolled to the bounties position while deputies drowned in their blood and ran like packrats, trying to avoid airborne, metal predators that searched for flesh to eat.
"What are we going to do now?" Boris face was red as the sun, from not breathing since the flurry of guns started. His eyes bludged, glaring at the Ace. "You're ignorance got us all killed!"
"We ain't dead yet—"
A deputy hit the ground. Half his head split and oozing, leaving sharp, white remains exposed. His limbs jerked like burning worms, cracking and snapping, and then stopped.
Before Boris's hand could find his lips, soggy-white liquid spurt out his mouth, producing high irks and low grunts, expelling his gut. The cows milk he used for breakfast no longer a pleasure, nor agreeing with his aching inside.
Jostice grimaced. Brugar pouted. And Krix heckled with laughter.
"Looks like this one's a blood virgin," He patted the large man's back, "Don't worry … you'll get over it … it's the smell of death that won't abandon your nose.
The flashing muzzles dimmed. And the cries of guns silenced. The ranch once again stood still while the sun continued to blind and paint.
They're reloading… Jostice stood to his feet and waved his hand. "Back!" He yelled. "To the horses … back!"
No man was left behind as they dragged the wounded from their garments, their limbs like paintbrushes, and blood like paint, leaving trail that led back to the mounts who were uneasy on their approach.
"What's the count?"
A skinny, dark-skinned deputy with big lips and bulging eyes shook his head. "Three dead … two mortally injured … and four needing bandages."
A crooked mouthed deputy swore. "They knew we was coming … it's the only way to explain it."
Boris plump cheeks twitched and he threw a finger at the new Sheriff. "They were expecting one — an Ace — but they got a whole players hand." He grabbed onto the saddle of a brown mare, breathing heavy. "We must return to Sundown … allow this to become a Legionnaire matter … or Marshalls … Deputies aren't trained nor prepared for this..."
"Wilkes and Rays have gone to the prairie." The crooked mouthed man swore. "That makes five dead."
Jostice heard enough. He raised his chest and lifted his chin. If you wanted to bring courage to the pack you must not show fear … and this was no pack … but a group of purple pansies, half ready to spill their guts and release their bowels.
"And you think they're going to allow us to retreat?" Jostice spoke with the voice of a calvary General. He spat. "They've done what they intended to do … fill us with fear before they hunt us down like dogs. And those who survive will be the few that can outrun them … but those who tend the wounded, how far will they get before they're captured, and those savages are tugging their hairs and carving flesh from their scalps?" He looked to each man, brows furrowed. "Those of you who survived the chase won't survive the guilt."